


A Thousand Meaningless Touches

by RedGazelle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:19:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5751646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedGazelle/pseuds/RedGazelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke has avoided touching Fenris unless she has to for over a year since they met. Fenris finally confronts her, and does not get the answer he is expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fenris lost the battle against himself.

  
“Hawke?”

  
“Mm?” she said without looking up from the book in her lap.

  
_Good_ , Fenris thought. It would make this easier. “Do I offend you in some way?” he said. He tried to keep his voice even, but a note of anger crept in. After all, what other reason could there be for her refusal to ever touch him?

  
Hawke chuckled softly. “Who gave you that idea? Anders?” She turned the page in her book, still reading as she spoke. “Sure, we don't always agree, and sure the shouting matches are spectacular,” she grinned down at her book. “But you know I love a good argument.”

  
“That isn't what I mean.”

  
“No?” Hawke turned another page.

  
“Do I repulse you?” he demanded.

  
Hawke finally looked up from her book and raise a dark eyebrow at his question. Her full attention made Fenris want to squirm. “Of course not, Fenris. What gave you that idea?” She frowned. “Did Anders give you _that_ idea?”

  
“No.”

  
“Then what?”

  
How could she not know? “Hawke. You did.”

  
She blinked. “I did.” It was not a question. “I made you feel repulsive."

  
Fenris said nothing. Color threatened to flood his cheeks, and rather than let her see it, Fenris began stalking back and forth in front of the fire. A full minute dragged on in agitated silence.

  
“Fenris,” Hawke said. There was so much weight to his name from her lips. Confusion, shame, _hurt_. She said his name again, a gentle request.

  
“You don't touch me.” From under the fringe of white hair hanging over his face, he could see Hawke square her shoulders against the accusation.

  
“I pulled an arrow out of your shoulder two days ago. That doesn't count?”

  
“No.” He stopped pacing and glared down at her.

  
Hawke glared back. “What does count then? Do I need to give you a Maker-blessed sponge bath for it to count?”

  
Fenris did blush then. “Absolutely not.”

  
They continued to glare at one another for several long moments before Hawke sigh loudly and scrubbed a hand over her face. “Sit down.” And then, remembering not to command him, “Please.” She gave him a smile between grimace and grin. “You're making me claustrophobic.”

  
Fenris acquiesced and settled on the floor next to her.

  
“Tell me how I've made you feel that way?”

  
Fenris looked into the quixotic firelight to avoid meeting Hawke’s eyes. “Your nature is to express yourself through touch. You casually touch the others constantly, but you only touch me when there is a purpose to it.”

  
Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “You don't like to be touched,” she said.

  
Fenris knew it should please him that she knew this about him and went out of her way to accommodate him, but it annoyed him instead. The way she was so careful with him spoke of pity, and Fenris hated it. He did not need and certainly did not want her pity. True, he hated being touched; a master’s touch meant pain for a slave. But that Hawke could see that so clearly, when he had never _asked_ not to be touched, made him snarl at her. “I don't need your pity, Hawke.” In his mouth, her name sounded like a curse.

  
Hawke simply sighed. “It isn't pity, Fenris. It's respect. I am trying to respect your boundaries.” Her voice was gentle but insistent, and Fenris knew that he already believed her. It really was frustrating how much he trusted this woman.

  
He sighed shoved his hands through his hair. “I don't need you to treat me differently,” he said. His tone was still adamant, but without the venom.

  
“I treat everyone differently,” she pointed out. “I tell jokes to Varric and Isabella that I would never tell to Sebastian. I coddle Merrill in a way I would never dare coddle you.”

  
“I don't need coddling.”

  
Hawke rolled her eyes. “No, you don't.”

  
But she did anyway. Didn't she realize that going against her nature to avoid touching him was doing exactly that? “You have a point,” he said, “but this is not an instance where you need to treat me differently.”

  
“No?”

  
“No.”

  
Hawke paused for a moment processing his request. “Do you want me to touch you, Fenris?” she said seriously. When Fenris raised an eyebrow at her wording, she smiled and shrugged her shoulders at him.

  
“What I want is for you to be yourself with me,” he said.

  
“I'm not less myself because I try not to touch you.”

  
“You are.” And she was. She was more hesitant, colder with him than she was with the others. She sat in the pirate’s lap, played with the blood mage’s hair, even ran her fingers through the dwarf’s chest hair when she was drunk. A thousand meaningless touches that she stopped short of with Fenris. He found that those meaningless touches meant a great deal in their absence. He had assumed she didn't care for him all that much initially, but that idea seemed to contrast with how much she sought out his company. She and her books had become a regular installation in front of his fireplace. The clash in her behavior had confused him—if she wasn't opposed to his company, then it must have been his body that kept her from touching him.

  
Somehow, Fenris felt a little lighter knowing her strange behavior was due to her attempt to treat him with more care than she treated the others, not less.

  
“Hmm. I suppose you might be right,” she said. Fenris had to admit, he loved hearing those illusive words from her mouth. “I apologize that I made you feel singled out. It was unintentional.”

  
_It was intentional, but it was well-intended_ , Fenris thought. With her, it seemed it was always damnably well intended. “Thank you, he said, and Hawke smiled at him.

  
How odd that Fenris was actually asking someone to touch him. He no longer had to accept the touches of others, and even more than disliking their touch, it gave Fenris a perverse kind of pleasure to deny people the option. It annoyed him when the dwarf insisted on slapping him on the back, or when Isabella took any and all opportunities to trail fingers across his wrist or brush her bosom against his shoulder. But it had annoyed him even more that Hawke had chosen not to touch him, and only him. He told himself it was because he wanted to be treated equally. It had angered him that she perceived him to be less worthy of her touch. But in the face of her thoughtful restraint, he found he couldn’t accept it gratefully. Was that still because he desired to be treated with equality? No less, but no more either? Fenris didn't know.

  
Fenris was startled from his thoughts by a body settling in beside him. Fenris looked over to find Hawke nestled against his side, curling her legs up beside her. She leaned into him and propped her book on his thigh. Too shocked to say anything, Fenris simply looked down at her, eyes wide. She looked up at him struggling to keep a straight face, clearly amused with herself.

  
“Better?” she asked. A grin broke through her control. She was pushing it, and she knew it.

  
“What do you think you're doing?” Fenris demanded.

  
She batted her lashes innocently at him. “Collecting on a year’s worth of inconvenience.”

  
Fenris's mouth opened, but refused to work for a moment. “So you treat me like a leper, and somehow I end up owing you?” He sounded more than a little annoyed with her.

  
For the briefest moment, a cringe flashed over Hawke's face. But immediately her grin was back, brasher than before. “Do you have any idea how difficult it’s been for me not to touch you? I'm a very invasive person,” she said as though it were a good thing. “And you...”

  
Suddenly she wasn't grinning anymore. Her eyes shifted to his hair and she reached her hand out towards it. Fenris reflexively cringed away from her touch, so near his face and ears. Hawke's eyes widened and the look in them deepened, became sadder. Fenris immediately felt guilty. Here he was, asking her to touch him, and the first time she tries to, he only reinforces the reason she hadn't done so for so long. She pulled her hand away from him towards her chest.

  
Without thinking, Fenris caught her hand before she could finish pulling it away. Unsure what he was doing or what to do next, he simply held her hand lightly and met her eyes. He had no context for the spark he saw in them. Fenris's heart thumped loudly in his ears, but Hawke did nothing, waiting for him to say or do something. She seemed content to wait with her hand caught in his as long as he needed. It was tempting to continue to be at a loss for words.

  
Fenris swallowed and said, “Go ahead.”

  
“Are you sure?”

  
He nodded. “It was unexpected, not unwelcome.” Fenris relaxed his hold on her hand.

  
She reached up, slower this time, and he allowed his fingers to trail down her arm. Tentatively she slid her fingers down a lock of his hair. She was careful not to actually touch his skin, just running her fingertips over the stark-white strands of his hair. Fenris wasn't sure whether he should panic at the contact or savor it. Gentleness was not something he was familiar with.

  
Hawke's grin was back, wide and silly. “Mmm. Just like I imagined.” She pulled her hand away, but even as Fenris was trying to decide whether to mourn its loss, she shifted closer and lay her head on his shoulder. “Soft as kitten fur.”

  
“So all of this,” he gestured to all of her curled against his side, “Is back-payment for my not allowing you to touch my hair for a whole year?” Fenris made no attempt to hide his amusement at the ridiculousness of the situation.

  
She nodded against his shoulder. “It looked soft.”

  
He shook his head, chuckling softly. “There really is no winning with you, is there?”

  
Her laughter reverberated through his chest. “So I've been told.” Hawke propped the book back up on his leg. “Now, if you don't mind, I’d like to get back to my book. Things were just starting to get really good.”

  
“What are you reading?” Fenris might not be able to read, but books fascinated him. The magneticism they seemed to have over those who read them—over Hawke.

  
She poked his leg with her finger. “That is not allowing me to continue reading.” But she was laughing and flipping the book to the cover with her finger trapped between the pages. Fenris glanced at the cover as she expected him to—the book was bound in new rigid leather still smelling like the tanners—and looked back at her. “It documents the Hero of Ferelden’s efforts during the Blight to save the kingdom. It's a fascinating account, really. Right now she’s in Orzammar, being forced to chose between Bhelen and Harrowmont. Personally, I'm routing for Bhelen. I like his views on the casteless dwarves.”

  
“You know the Hero supported Bhelen,” Fenris said.

  
“Shh. Don't ruin the ending,” she said. “You're welcome to read it with me if you like. You'll just have to be patient with me. Bethany was always complaining that I was a slow reader.”

  
“You are?” Fenris was pleasantly surprised at her assumption that he was a faster reader than she was. He was also ashamed that he couldn't reassure her of the opposite without revealing the truth.

  
“My eyes don't track the words properly. I end up reading the same line over and over sometimes. It's rather frustrating.”

  
His shame deepened at her openness about her weakness. “Why do it so often if it’s hard for you?” Fenris said.

  
“It's not that it's hard, per say. It’s just...inconvenient some times. Besides, I love the freedom books offer me. I can be anyone, anywhere—especially things I could never be on my own.”

  
Freedom, she had said. Books gave freedom. Yes, that was the true reason slaves weren't taught to read. It wouldn't do to have a slave escape, even it that escape was only in his own head. Fenris had always suspected as much, freedom and power, but to hear Hawke say it with such longing...what was it that she was looking to escape from? She was no slave, but the prospect of true freedom was as tantalizing to her as it was to him. It only increased his yearning to be able to read, and his bitterness that he never would.

  
“Read your book, Hawke. I am content.”

  
And he was. Though Hawke's nearness was unsettling in its strangeness, that was all it was. New. Different. Unexpected. Fenris breathed deeply and smelled leather and pine trees—Hawke's scent. The pressure of her body against the bare skin of his arm made his markings tingle and hum in a way that was...not altogether unpleasant.

  
Fenris gazed into the fire that was still burning high in the fireplace. The tongues lapped at one another, shifting and dancing in patterns indiscernible to the eye. How did Hawke manage to do it? How did she always manage to make him trust her just a little more, make him be just a little more vulnerable with her? Fenris would have suspected blood magic if the woman had been a mage. _No_ , he thought, _that isn't true_. Even if she’d been a mage, what she did was no convention of magic. Blood magic was never so subtle, so gentle. Blood magic forced thoughts and action upon you, but they never felt like your own. And Fenris knew his thoughts and actions were his own. He trusted Hawke. It was not unconditional, nor was it limitless, but it was there nevertheless. And he let her in closer than he had ever allowed anyone. Which, he supposed, didn't say all that much considering the distance at which he held the rest of the world. But he had allowed Hawke closer and closer until she was now literally pressed up against his side. Fenris knew it was a dangerous thing. Trusting her, allowing her to see his vulnerabilities, gave her power over him. She could change her mind at any time and crush the fledgling, unnamed thing she’d allowed to grow inside him. Fenris didn't like it. The possibility frightened him. That was a vulnerability he would never show Hawke.

  
Fenris sighed. His only options were to stay or to run away, and his bones were achingly tired of running.

  
Next to him, Hawke's breathing slowed and grew deeper. Fenris looked down at her and saw her eyelids flutter and then shut. The book drooped from her hands into his lap. Hawke was asleep. Fenris couldn't help but smile. It wasn't as though he’d never seen the woman sleep before. He saw her sleep every time they found themselves camping along the Wounded Coast, or when they were all so blazingly drunk that they passed out around Varric's table, but none of those were as innocent, as intimate, as this. Hawke snuggled in closer to him in her sleep, wrapping her arms around his, and a jolt of electricity ran up the lyrium in his arm. Fenris reached out and ran his fingers through the curtain of black hair that had fallen over her face. It was only fair. Her hair was soft and feathery—he was never aware of wondering what Hawke's hair would feel like, but apparently this was in alignment with what he’d pictured.

  
Fenris was getting tired himself, so he picked the book up from his lap and lay it on the bench behind them. He eased himself sideways and out from under Hawke’s weight and laid her next to the fire. He grabbed one of the threadbare pillows from the bed he never used and tucked it under her head. He knew he could wake her up and tell her to go home, but it seemed unkind, and he honestly didn’t mind her presence.

  
Fenris quietly unbuckled his armor and laid it out on the empty bed. Normally he slept nude, allowing the lyrium to breathe. But out of his own sense of shame rather than for Hawke’s modesty, he left his leathers on. Fenris laid on the floor beside Hawke—not needing a pillow—and closed his eyes. He let himself be lulled by Hawke's rhythmic breathing, and when she fitfully tucked herself against his side, he didn't know whether to laugh or groan. He had created a monster. Fenris drifted toward the Fade with an exasperated smile ghosting his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke accidentally wakes Fenris from a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for the second chapter! I found Hawke's perspective much harder to edit for some reason.
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to my beta—B!

Hawke woke with stiff limbs, vaguely aware she wasn't at home in her own bed, but unwilling to open her eyes just yet to figure out where she was. She wasn't outside in her bedroll somewhere—to quiet for that. She wasn't passed out on Varric's table, either—not hungover enough for that. _It's sad that I've slept there so often that it's one of the places that feels homey and familiar._ She was laying on a cool floor with a somewhat flat pillow under her head. _Fenris's_ _floor_ , she corrected. _I must've fallen asleep while I was reading._ She was surprised Fenris had let her stay. Add that to the list. Fenris had done a lot of surprising things that night.

The faint light behind her eyes told her it was already morning. Hawke groaned. How could she still be this tired? It couldn't have been that late when she passed out. She cracked one eye open and several things registered all at once: It was still the dead of night, a faint orange halo surrounded the burned down remnant of the fire, and the lyrium markings on Fenris's body were glowing with an ethereal blue light that gently illuminated the entire room. Hawke's breath caught in her throat.

The ignited lyrium in his skin was so bright that the lines curving and crawling along his musculature were visible even through his leathers. They were beautiful. Hawke was immediately ashamed of thinking so, but they were. This was the longest she'd ever been able to observe his markings. She longed to trace the patterns on his bare skin with equally bare fingertips. Fenris would hate her if he knew what she wanted, and—as if he could hear her thoughts—Fenris shifted restlessly in his sleep.

Sighing quietly, Hawke slid out of her armor, leaving her leathers in place. She’d curled back up and was trying to ignore the impulse to touch Fenris when she heard him whimper. It was low and frightened, and not meant for her ears. His eyes shifted rapidly behind his eyelids and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides—it had to be a nightmare and Hawke could only imagine the horrors Fenris’s subconscious had to torment his with.

Hawke knew better than to try to wake people who could easily harm her from nightmares. Bethany used to have nightmares all the time, and Hawke usually got a face full of magic for her sisterly efforts. Not to mention, she didn’t have permission to be here, witnessing this—Fenris would definitely not want her seeing him like this. But she couldn't let him suffer if there was something she could do to help.

Hawke eased up onto one elbow and leaned over Fenris. She reached out hesitantly, still unsure if touching him was allowed, despite his previous assertions. Carefully she let her fingers run through his hair. She had received permission to do that at least.

“Shh. It's ok,” she said. She wouldn't try to shake him awake, that would almost certainly end badly, but she could attempt to soothe him in his sleep. “You’re stronger than your demons.” Her fingertips carded gently through the white fringe framing his face.

Fenris's eyes flashed open and she froze. “Fenris...?”

Before she could blink, Fenris had sat up and closed her throat in his hand. _Well shit,_ she thought. _That could’ve gone better_. He was crushing her windpipe, and his other hand was poised in front of her chest, ready to phase and rip her heart out. She tried to pry his hands from her neck, to draw even a single breath, but he was stronger than she was. Even without sticking his hand inside her chest, he was killing her.

His eyes stared straight through her, not seeing. Her body ached for air. Hawke had to force herself to ignore her instinct to fight back. _Fenris..._ She would _not_ hurt him to free herself. “...Fen...ris,” she choked out. She wouldn't jeopardize the trust she'd fought so hard to earn.

At the sound of her voice, however distorted and strangled, Fenris's eyes focused on her, finally seeing her. His eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of his hand crushing her throat, but it took another full second of crushing asphyxiation before he realized that he needed to let her go. Fenris yanked his hand away, removing the vice grip from her windpipe.

Hawke gasped, or tried to. The large breath of air caught along her ravaged throat, and she choked on it. Hawke fell forward to her hands and knees in a violent coughing fit. Every cough tore through her, making her dizzy with pain and breathlessness. She was aware of nothing but the need for air in her lungs for several long moments until the fit subsided. Having learned her lesson, Hawke attempted to take a short shallow breath. Her vision swam, but she didn’t choke on it.

Hawke sat up, moving to let the warm stone of the fireplace support her weight. Fenris hadn’t moved. Didn’t try to move. Or speak. He only stared at her in horror.

“I...” she tried to say, but wound up coughing again. She swallowed and tried again, softer this time. “I'm sorry.”

If it was possible, Fenris's eyes opened even wider—briefly—before narrowing significantly. “ _You're sorry?_ ” He didn't shout at her; instead, the question was dangerously quiet.

Hawke cringed. “I shouldn't have tried to calm you. I know better.”

“You know better,” he repeated.

She nodded. “Bethany used to have nightmares all the time. After the first few times, I knew better than to try and wake her. She always instinctively lashed out at me, still fighting the demons in the Fade. But I couldn't just do nothing. The nightmares were so bad...they hunted her so relentlessly…I tried soothing her, with words, with touch. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes I ended up electrocuted or knocked across the room.” Hawke smiled ruefully. “One time she singed my eyebrows off. There was no healing that one. I had to wait for them to grow back.” She was rambling. She needed to shut up.

“That’s supposed to comfort me? That my behavior resembles that of a mage?” he snarled at her.

“Of course not.” Hawke hung her head. “Forgive me.”

At that, Fenris abruptly stood and all but ran from the room.

Hawke sighed and immediately regretted the effort. She’d just gotten him to let her touch him. _Look, Fenris! See how much fun physical contact can be?_ Maker damn her inability to leave well enough alone.

Unsure if her legs would support her, she crawled across the room to her pack in the corner. There was a flask of water in it, and she desperately needed lubrication in her throat. She fished around for a moment before grasping the flask and crawling back over to the fireplace with her prize. The water was heaven. She didn't care that it tasted stale and a bit like leather—she couldn’t swallow fast enough to satisfy her greedy, swollen thirst.

She waited because Fenris hadn’t demanded that she leave and nursed the remaining third of her flask, staring at the fire. For a man who never wore shoes, Fenris knew how to make as much noise as a lead footed templar in heavy plate: Footsteps boomed throughout the mansion accompanied by livid Tevene. Some of the curses were familiar, and the rest of his foreign ranting was punctuated by the crash of a chair or a vase being thrown against the wall. Hawke continued to wait, stoking the fire occasionally, dozing between crescendos of property damage.

Finally there was movement in the doorway. Hawke looked up to see Fenris standing there. He held her gaze intently as he walked over and sat down in front of her. “What were you thinking?” he demanded.

It was an easy question. “You were in pain.”

“So you knowingly allowed me to almost kill you?” His tone was bitter, but he wasn't snarling at her anymore.

“Not exactly, but I suppose I knew the risks,” she said. “You're both more dangerous and more cautious than Bethany ever was.”

He shook his head and looked away. “You should’ve let me be.”

“I know. It wasn't my place. I apologize for intruding.”

He swung back around to stare at her. “That wasn't what I meant, Hawke. You almost died. At my hands.” A flicker of emotion ran through his features. If Hawke was reading it right, she thought it might have been shame or perhaps fear. He looked down at his hands, and this time the emotion was very clearly disgust. “You haven't earned such a death.”

“Good thing I'm not dead then.”

“No thanks to your own efforts.”

Hawke took a sip from her flask. “True.”

“You didn't fight back. Why?”

“I would've had to hurt you.”

“You're not a slave. You don't need to accept abuse.”

Hawke ground her teeth together to avoid a tirade against Danarius. “That isn't the point.”

“ _Venhedis_! It is the point, Hawke. You would've foolishly allowed me to kill you.”

“I doubt that. I hadn't even started to black out.”

Fenris slammed his fist on the ground. “Hawke!”

Her contrary nature worked to her advantage when she and Fenris fought like this. It kept her from flinching or backing down when he got angry enough to punch a hole in the wall—and from her vantage point by the fire, she could see several old holes. “I've worked hard to earn your trust, Fenris. I don't intend to needlessly throw that away.”

“So you would needlessly throw away your life to keep my trust?” Fenris was shouting at her, which was infinitely less dangerous than when he was silent.

However, Hawke wasn't sure she had an answer to that. “Not intentionally. But how do you bring yourself to attack a person you've decided to protect?”

“Apparently with ease,” Fenris snapped.

“Don’t be an idiot, Fenris.”

He looked like he was going to keep arguing with her for a moment, but all he said was, “If I knew that…” He curled his fingers into a fist and the splayed them out again, watching the lyrium ripple beneath his skin. “If you learn the answer, I would not turn the knowledge aside.”

Fenris must’ve had opportunities to kill Danarius, but, as far as she knew, the magister remained alive and unharmed. It had taken Fenris three years to stop running—and Hawke wondered if Fenris would've actually been able to kill his former master the night they’d all barged into this mansion.

Fenris was still examining the lyrium in his hand—the hand that had nearly crushed Hawke’s throat—so she clasped his hand in hers. “It's alright.”

Fenris jumped at the contact, but didn't pull away. “It’s not alright,” he said. He raised his other hand to hover over the angry marks and deep bruising already forming on her neck. “You are not alright.”

“Well, no,” she admitted. Fighting with Fenris hadn’t helped the pain much either. “But I'll be fine once I go see Anders in the morning.” Deep dislike colored his face. Fenris wasn't at fault in this matter, but Anders would certainly not see it that way. He would tear into Fenris in an instant. She could make up a story about some thug on the street, but she didn't like to blatantly lie to her companions if she didn't have to. “Unless you have a healing potion lying about? After that last job, I am all out.”

Relief passed like lightning over his face. He stood, walked over to a trunk in the corner, and rummaged around inside it for several moment. When he sat back down, he handed her a small glass bottle with red liquid inside.

“Thanks,” she said. He nodded. Hawke unstoppered the bottle and kicked back the contents. It tasted foul, as always. However, she could feel its effects immediately burning through the damaged tissue of her neck. When she swallowed, the sensation didn't tear at her throat. “Better?”

“It appears healed.” Fenris looked at her uncertainly.

She sighed inwardly. She didn’t want to walk home this late at night. She was tired, and the hard floor was infinitely preferable to the long, dangerous walk to Lowtown. She wanted to stay, to make sure that Fenris didn't agonize over this for the rest of the night, as he was prone to do. But she’d troubled him enough for one day. Traumatized him enough for one day. She stood, and his eyes followed her.

“You're leaving, then?” Fenris said.

She nodded. “I think I've caused enough chaos for tonight.” The comment was wry but her smile was gentle.

Fenris stood without responding and began buckling his armor back into place.

“Where could you possibly need to go at this unholy hour?”

“To escort you home.”

Hawke couldn't help the genuine peal of laughter that escaped her. “Oh, sit down Fenris. It's not like I'd let you walk back to Hightown alone either. If that's how this is going to go, I'll save us the trouble and just stay until morning.”

Fenris stopped buckling on his armor, but didn't move to remove the pieces he was already wearing either.

“I could sleep in another room if you'd prefer.”

Quietly, Fenris said, “Would that make you feel safer?” His voice was deeply bitter and Hawke couldn't help how annoyed she was at his self-loathing.

She stepped towards him slowly until she could cup his chin. She didn't have permission for this yet, but he made no move to stop her. She brought his gaze up to meet hers. “I've never felt unsafe with you, Fenris. Tonight hasn't changed that. I was only trying to consider your comfort.” She let her hand fall to her side but didn't move away.

His eyes were intent on hers. “What have I done to deserve that trust?”

He was so sincere, so serious, that Hawke had to make a conscious effort not to roll her eyes. “A thousand things.” She still sounded exasperated— _Oh well._ “Tonight, you were angry with me because I let you hurt me, not because I touched you; and it’s not like tonight's the only example like that.” She shrugged. “That's good enough for me.”

Fenris just stared at her with a mix of annoyance and disbelief that was so very Fenris. Hawke smiled brilliantly at him, just to be obnoxious, then headed straight for the large, moth-eaten bed on the far side of the room and threw herself down. A cloud of dust puffed up to greet her. Hawke sneezed half a dozen times—thank the Maker for that healing potion or she probably would have just killed herself.

“Andraste’s tits!” _Sneeze_. “Fenris…” _Sneeze_. “…when was the…” _Sneeze_. “Last time you used this thing?”

“Never.” For the first time since she had woken him from his nightmares, Fenris was smiling. The hours she would have to spend flushing dust out of her nose tomorrow were well worth it.

“Really? Not even when you're drunk?”

Fenris shrugged. “It's too soft.”

Hawke smiled back at him. There was a story there he wasn't telling, but that was fine. She pretended to plant a flag in the sheets. “Then I claim this land for House Amell.” _Sneeze_ , _sneeze_ , _sneeze_.

Fenris managed to avoid laughing during her flag planting ceremony, but her continuous sneezing was too much for him. Hawke was rewarded with deep, earnest laughter. Maker’s breath, she loved his laugh.

Fenris shook his head as he cast aside his armor and settled back in front of the fire. “You're a strange woman, Hawke.”

Hawke hummed happily as she settled into the dusty bed. “I know.”

Hawke had barely managed to stay awake while waiting for Fenris, so the comfort of a soft bed had her drifting in minutes. She almost didn't register Fenris saying her name.

“Hawke.”

“Mm.” She rolled over, wrapping herself tighter in the worn blankets.

“Hawke?”

Her eyelids fluttered languidly. “Mm hmm?”

“I…” Fenris broke off.

Hawke wasn't entirely sure how long the silence lasted because sleep kept tugging her under. “Are you brooding?”

Fenris snorted. “I do not brood.”

The corner of Hawke’s lips not pressed into the bed curved into a grin. “Liar.” Fenris sighed and she couldn't resist the soft laugh that melted into the blankets.

“You're a fool, Hawke—you risk too much for so little in return.”

It was a common refrain for Fenris. “I don't see it that way.”

“I know,” he said. “…thank you.”

“I think there was a compliment in there somewhere.”

“Go to sleep, Hawke.”

“Mm. Way ahead of you.”


End file.
